, all leading to the Rue du Tourniquet, might think he had
passed through cellars all the way.

Almost all the streets of old Paris, of which ancient chronicles laud
the magnificence, were like this damp and gloomy labyrinth, where the
antiquaries still find historical curiosities to admire. For instance,
on the house then forming the corner where the Rue du Tourniquet joined
the Rue de la Tixeranderie, the clamps might still be seen of two strong
iron rings fixed to the wall, the relics of the chains put up every
night by the watch to secure public safety.

This house, remarkable for its antiquity, had been constructed in a way
that bore witness to the unhealthiness of these old dwellings; for,
to preserve the ground-floor from damp, the arches of the cellars
rose about two feet above the soil, and the house was entered up three
outside steps. The door was crowned by a closed arch, of which the
keystone bore a female head and some time-eaten arabesques. Three
windows, their sills about five feet from the ground, belonged to a
small set of rooms looking out on the Rue du Tourniquet, whence they
derived their light. These windows were protected by strong iron bars,
very wide apart, and ending below in an outward curve like the bars of a
baker's window.

If any passer-by during the day were curious enough to peep into the two
rooms forming this little dwelling, he could see nothing; for only under
the sun of July could he discern, in the second room, two beds hung with
green serge, placed side by side under the paneling of an old-fashioned
alcove; but in the afternoon, by about three o'clock, when the candles
were lighted, through the pane of the first room an old woman might be
seen sitting on a stool by the fireplace, where she nursed the fire in
a brazier, to simmer a stew, such as porters' wives are expert in. A
few kitchen utensils, hung up against the wall, were visible in the
twilight.

At that hour an old table on trestles, but bare of linen, was laid with
pewter-spoons, and the dish concocted by the old woman. Three wretched
chairs were all the furniture of this room, which was at once the
kitchen and the dining-room. Over the chimney-piece were a piece of
looking-glass, a tinder-box, three glasses, some matches, and a large,
cracked white jug. Still, the floor, the utensils, the fireplace,
all gave a pleasant sense of the perfect cleanliness and thrift that
pervaded the dull and gloomy home.

The old woman